


Wristcutter.

by WhatTheWentz



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cutting, Depression, Sad, Self Harm, Triggers, personal, self hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheWentz/pseuds/WhatTheWentz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She felt so much emotionally, she would say, that a physical outlet - physical pain - was the only way to make her internal pain go away. It was the only way she could control it.” <br/>― Richelle Mead, Vampire Academy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wristcutter.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is something I wrote, it's very personal, I hope you guys don't hate it.

‘You’re pathetic’ is what the voice in her head always screams to her, ‘Look at the other girls, they’re perfect -- thin -- and you’re a fat waste of space’.  
She stands in front of the mirror, cursing the fat, ugly bitch who stares back at her the girl who’s arms are marred with thick, red lines, who has stretch marks like scars in her skin, the mess who has chunky amounts of flesh hanging from her body, more than there should be. Her hair is mussed and thin, parts of it sticking out everywhere.  
In her dead eyes are remnants of tears already fallen, the orbs rimmed red and dry, no more fluid available. So now she has to look at this wreck in detail, the tears that had once shielded her eyes now letting her see all the ugliness in high definition. Words come to mind.  
Flabby. Imperfect. Not good enough.  
They run through her mind, chastising her for being so worthless, so idiotic, so unwantable. Nobody would date a girl like her, a girl who hides behind snide comments and jokes, a girl who is rude to everyone they meet so that they aren’t burdened with her presence. She’s already pushed everyone away. She’s usually incredibly sarcastic, hiding behind the snarky words and supposed sassiness, when in reality, she hates every fibre of herself, and wished that she had never been born.  
It would’ve been much simpler if she hadn't have been. She wouldn’t be disappointing everyone as she failed her exams, she wouldn’t have to worry whether she would have a future or not, she wouldn’t walk around feeling so different.  
She was so paranoid and no matter where she was, she always felt someone’s eyes watching her, or heard someone’s words mocking her, and it frightened her that she would always be judged, that someone always would hate her just for existing.  
She’s tried talking to her friends, but nothing can work, so she pushed them all away from her, isolating herself in this comforting little bubble, where all but the voices in her head were quiet.  
And now, finally, she saw herself. For the first time in ages, she truly saw herself. Her hands shakily fumbled in her drawers for something -- anything -- to appease those voices, anything to make them be sated for at least a few hours.  
Her mouth curved in a broken smile -- she was a professional at those -- when her hand ran over a pencil sharpener. She pulled it out of the drawer, her straggly, loose strands of hair falling in front of her cold eyes as she brings it in front of her face, seeing that from past adventures with Mr. Silver, the blade was hanging loosely from the plastic. Her fingers nimbly pull Silver out, and she puts away the unneeded plastic.  
Slowly, she puts the blade against her skin, her conscience pleading with her to put away the iron, but the darkness soon shuts that away. Because the neverending pit of black always swallows the hope and happiness within the girl.  
The first slice just hurts, and crimson doesn’t immediately show on her skin, so she presses harder before jutting her arm again, and properly breaking the skin, feeling the euphoria wash over her, her endorphins pumping like mad to drive away the pain.  
More minutes pass, and more red appears over her arms, and she pulls on some bracelets to hide the scars that will begin to form there.  
She looks in the mirror again and locks her jaw, before whispering some trembling words.  
‘Am I perfect now?’

And the voices laugh back, ‘No, you aren’t. You’re not worth it anymore. You don’t deserve to live.’  
She knows how foolish and young she is to believe them, but still does anyway, and puts down the blade, the tears finally rising to her eyes. She’s not worth it. Doesn’t deserve to live.  
She wants to die.  
Days pass, and those turn into weeks, and nothing improves. Every day, the feeling of iron against flesh becomes more and more addictive, and she can’t stop -- she just can’t. But nobody sees her suffering, and she’s once more a forgotten ghost.  
She thinks more of taking her life, believing that she will finally be loved, because nobody really loves you unless you’re beautiful or dead. At least that’s what she’s wired to believe. She’s cold, empty.  
And she’s a human being, who due to the help of her family and friends (the ones who refuse to leave her), she will get through this, she will fight those thoughts, stop harming herself. Because she is worth it. She’s worth loving, and caring for. Just like any human is.


End file.
